TRAVELS
TO THE SUN
A
Midwestern ode to those Metros who slog
south
. . . to find sun
wasting
distemper shots on their dogs;
and
to
those special few whose homespun grace
helped
us learn
that
Spring is more than a sunny place.
Expectations were
high!
It was March . . . and Spring was due
. . . on the calendar.
de jure,
If NOT de facto
We decided to act .
. . to
. . . Tampa with the temps,
hit the trail, and travel back to
a Florida place . . . called
Saddle Ranch.
We traveled south,
left the FRIENDLY Midwest,
drove through southern
HOSPITALITY . . .
. . . and seemed to overshoot our mark.
For, while the
weather said, “Tropical,”
we met some kiesters,
chill-winded Nor’easters,
who blew in with a cloud
covered Spring with a pall,
and fostered ill-will
. . .
. . . and loud
noises.
For suddenly sun had
sounds:
Horn blasts . . .
Making beach life
feel like home,
home on the RANGE,
home on the FIRING range . . .
of a city intersection.
Want to get picked
off in the cross-fire
of honking horns and honked
off drivers?
Ease away from a
stop light.
It got worse.
Horns, not deadly or
personal, enough
Were focused . . . by loud
people . . .
creating a din
spewed from urban
lives spent wrestling crowds,
where rowdies
have their way every
day.
“You idiot! Can’t you read the signs?”
“F--- you, genius!”
“I’ll Call the cops!”
Enter more horns — cum blasto!
No wonder the crowds
spit them out
and sent them south,
bumper to bumper
blasting away
shooting lip from the hip
mile after mile
wild west style . . .
. . . until they settled
into their ruts,
repeating
the retorts
transplanted,
where sand dragged
them to a stop in the sun,
adding
outside burns
to
their inside ovens,
extending to others
their
hellish hot city covens.
It’s possible that
this was all too much
for a first-time
snowbird
unseasoned, senses askew,
over-hyped illusions
unable to generate
enough internal personal spring
to tune out the
cacophony.
There may have been
poetry in the voices there
Some were trying to
communicate,
but they were
strangers
and they seemed insistent
on trying to
communicate via their cars
we seem capable of merging lanes,
but not people
traveling enclosed
in
dueling vehicles.
No wonder roads
rage.
We did finally hit
our mark,
our Mark and Tracy Spring,
complete with alligator . . .
and darts.
Host and hostess
with the “sodas” —
not the “pop” —
drinks and paella all around —
it never stopped.
Was it warm?
on the porch
by the pool
anywhere we were.
And were we
cool?
all, way cool,
especially when the cameras
came out.
There was Hannah
with or without a banana;
Emily and Alyssa
never missed a
cheesecake opportunity.
Uncles, aunts, moms
and dads,
grandmothers and
papa
friends, dogs,
Brie’s monologs.
We finally located
spring
. . . in the midst
of what we were doing.
Dennis Keefe,
3/25/03
